


King Hercules

by Amorette



Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys
Genre: Gen, a bit angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:38:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5689588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorette/pseuds/Amorette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened in his childhood that made King Hercules such a cold man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	King Hercules

**Author's Note:**

> I do love 'what if' stories. This is one.

King Hercules  
By Amorette

Hercules reined his horse to a halt and studied the quiet farm on the hill above. The vines around the gate were in bloom and he could hear a voice, likely that of a housemaid, singing a song as she worked. It was quiet and inviting and were Hercules genuinely happy to be at his mother's home, he no doubt would have found the sight before him pleasing.

As it was, he felt only his usual sense of unease. He was not close to his mother and was always uncomfortable around her, certain she felt the same towards him. Still, his father was quite insistent the Hercules show the proper filial devotion and, as King, he also felt an obligation to demonstrate respect to family. So, four times a year, just after the season turned, he rode from his capital in Mycenae and spent the day visiting his mother. The spring equinox was two days past and here he was.

When he arrived at the gate, the singing maid broke off her song as she scrubbed the floor and rose, only to drop a curtsy. Hercules tossed his reins to one of his men and started for his mother's chamber. He usually found her on the second floor balcony off her sitting room, working on her embroidery, enjoying the cool breezes along the east side of the house, scented from the old apple orchard above. He had started towards the stairs when his mother's housekeeper appeared, curtsied, and said, "Not that way, milord. Your lady mother is in the back garden."

Alcmene was seated on a bench beneath an arbor, watching a slave dig up a patch of weeds. Hercules came and stood beside her.

"Mother?"

She started, her hand to her breast, then gave her son a bright, if somewhat forced, smile. "Hercules." She gestured to a servant to bring refreshments. "You're looking well."

The visit was going as they always did, thought Hercules. He bent and kissed her cheek, then sat beside her in a chair.

"As are you, Mother."

"And the children?"

While Hercules gave his usual messages, he found himself studying the field slave. He didn't recall seeing the man around his mother's farm before. Not tall, he had bright gold hair pulled into a rough knot at the nape of neck. Stripped to the waist, the slave's skin was bronzed by the sun, smooth over his well formed muscles. Frowning, Hercules realized the slave had a thief's brand on one shoulder and a prison mark on his throat.

Hercules interrupted whatever nonsense his mother was babbling about the grapes and said, "That slave. What are you doing with a prisoner?"

Alcmene shielded her eyes against the sun. "Do you mean Iolaus?"

"If that's the slave over there." Hercules pointed. "Then, yes, Iolaus." He hesitated before chastising his mother for buying a slave from a prison. There was something about the man and the name that stirred a memory, elusive and disturbing.

"Iolaus is no ordinary prison slave." Alcmene tipped her head to look up at her son. Even without his crown, the son of Zeus looked every inch the autocratic ruler he was. Had she given birth to this giant of a man? Sometimes, she wondered.

"My mother," said Hercules, glancing back at her, "should not be buying prisoners. He was a thief! For all you know, he'll pick the locks on his chains and rob you, before he murders you in your sleep!"

Alcmene's eyes narrowed. "In the first place, Hercules, I do not keep him chained. And in the second, Iolaus would never steal from me and he certainly would never harm me! You should know that!"

"Why? Why should I know that?"

Alcmene sighed. "Don't you remember Iolaus, Hercules? When you were children, before you went to live with your father, he was your favorite playmate."

Hercules frowned. He never thought about those days when he had called this place home. Those memories, of his mortal childhood, were deeply buried and he did not often recall them. And yet, the memory of a child with golden curls drifted up from the long past. He looked up at the slave.

"I remember. . ." Hercules was never hesitant. To rule a kingdom, to carry the obligations of his patrimony, required a decisive mind with no room for doubt. It was one of the reasons he didn't like to visit his mother. She always made him doubt himself.

A child with golden curls, bright blue eyes and a ready laugh drifted through Hercules' memory. There was a another child in those memories, too, one with brown eyes and copper hair, one that Hercules preferred to forget.

Hercules waved his hand dismissively. "That was a lifetime ago, Mother. The man is a thief and a prisoner. You should sell him and buy a decent field slave."

"Iolaus is an excellent worker. He's trained as a smith, as well, and is good with the animals. I have no intention of selling him." Her voice turned cold. "Unless you order me to, my Lord."

Hercules looked at his mother, surprised. She rarely spoke to him like that. "If you want to keep him," he said, "then don't complain to me if something ill comes of it."

The rest of the afternoon was even more awkward than usual and Hercules was glad to take his leave. He tried to put his mother and her field slave out of his mind. Still, he found himself thinking about it a few days later as he tended to some paperwork.

"You look worried," said a familiar voice, interrupting his brooding over his mother's taste in servants. "Surely the annual grain inventories aren't worrisome. I thought the harvest was excellent last year."

"It was." Hercules looked up at his brother, grateful for the interruption. "I was thinking about something else."

"Ah." Ares, the God of War and Wisdom, took his accustomed place by the fire in Hercules' chamber, smoothing his long grey robe over his legs. "Something troubling, if I'm any judge."

"Not troubling, really." Hercules abandoned his desk and came to sit by his brother. It had been raining that day and a small fire burned in the hearth. He put his feet close to the warmth, although he barely noticed cold or heat. "A minor thing. . ."

"And yet, it distracts King Hercules from his labors. What ails you, brother?"

Hercules allowed himself a rare sigh. His elder brother was the only person in all his family he considered a confidant. During his youth, it had been Ares, more than their father, who had guided Hercules as he struggled to find his place, halfway between earth and Olympus.

"My mother bought a prisoner, a one time thief, as a field slave."

Ares raised an eyebrow. "Not in character for the Lady Alcmene. Is he a handsome one?"

Hercules answered automatically, "Yes," then frowned as Ares laughed. Unlike his father and brother, Hercules was not a man much interested in physical passion. He had taken lovers a youth, as was expected of him, and married, as was expected. He had two living sons and his wife lived with them in the country, away from the sometimes unhealthy climate of the city. He saw them weekly but took little interest in them, beyond being sure his sons were being properly trained to succeed him, if need be. When he became a full god, as his father said he would, then he would need an heir.

He had a mistress, a handsome woman who served him adequately, when he needed the relief, and never bothered him for expressions of affection. But he took no great pleasure in his bed, never lingered there, and didn't truly understand those for whom love and sex were of primary interest.

"I doubt my mother has him for that," said Hercules sourly, glaring at his smirking brother. "Although he is a handsome man. No, it's something else. She says his name is Iolaus and he was my childhood. . .what?"

Ares had gone utterly still, more unmoving than any mere human, as still as if he were carved of grey granite.

"Ares?"

Ares shook himself and looked up at Hercules. "The Fates have a sense of humor."

"What?"

"Iolaus was fated to be your companion but Zeus somehow managed to change that, to set you and Iolaus on separate courses. Amazing that after all these years, he has come back again."

Hercules' brows lowered angrily. "My companion? I have no need of a body servant and certainly wouldn't want a catamite. Sounds as if Zeus were doing the right thing."

"Not a servant." Ares shook his head again. "Hardly that. Or a catamite, for that matter. Iolaus was supposed to be a great warrior. His father pledged him to me at birth and he was supposed to be raised to be your sword brother, your dearest friend and companion." Ares hesitated. "But that was changed. He ended up a thief and now, your mother's slave."

"Why would Zeus do that?"

Ares shrugged. "Our father works in mysterious ways. He felt, for some reason, that Iolaus would lead you astray from what Zeus saw as your destiny. I wasn't happy, since Iolaus was supposed to be mine, but Zeus can be stubborn."

Hercules frowned as he stared into the fire. Iolaus? He remembered, vaguely, having difficulty pronouncing that name. Being gently teased because he couldn't say the 'l' properly, making it into a 'w.' Teased by. . .Hercules stood up abruptly.

"Foolishness," he said, as much to himself as to his brother. His half brother. His godly half brother. "My mother is a sentimental fool and she'll no doubt regret buying the man. And if he's my age. . ."

"A bit older, as I recall."

"Then he's too old to be of use for much longer." Hercules said it as if he believed it, but the image of the bronze skin and the easy rhythm with which the slave had worked, belied that statement. Iolaus might be a man well into his middle years but he seemed to still possess the strength and suppleness of youth. Had his mother bought the handsome slave to warm her bed as well as tend her garden? He pushed the thought away. What did it matter if she had? His mother's private life was no concern of his, so long as she behaving appropriately in public. Should he hear any wisp of scandal, however, then he would assert his stubborn streak and insist the slave be sold.

Spring turned into summer. King Hercules of Mycenae was often away that summer, at war with the Attic Alliance or the Macedonians or the Persians. He missed his mid-summer visit with his mother, giving it no thought until he returned to his palace that fall. A banquet was feted in his honor, his queen, in her best robes, at his side. His sons, both much grown since he saw them last, bowed before their father as he entered to take his seat.

He felt a pang of regret at that. His own father had been distant and he recalled now how he had told Ares, long ago, before he married, that he would try to be close to his children. It was foolish wish. A king had little time for his family, the way a commoner did. Still, as Hercules spoke to his sons, aware of how little he had to speak to them about, he decided he would spend more time with the boys. He would take them hunting, or to visit his mother. It was only then he remembered he had not seen him mother that summer.

And so it was that a few days later, in the lingering warmth of early autumn, King Hercules and the Princes Aeson and Jason rode out of the city and across the countryside until they reached the farm where Hercules had been born. The boys bickered as they rode. Hercules was going to remonstrate them until their tutor, a wise centaur who had also guided Hercules in his childhood, laughed and said to their father how much brothers like to argue.

Hercules had started to protest, to say that he and Ares rarely disagreed and certainly had never teased each other as his sons were now doing but then he remembered two things. The first was that Ares had always been an adult, at least in Hercules' lifetime, and that Hercules had had a brother once, long ago, who had teased him.

Because the visit was special, a messenger had been sent ahead. Alcmene was waiting at the door to greet them. She embraced her grandsons with genuine warmth and Hercules was reminded that they visited his mother with their mother when he wasn't around. He was an outsider in his own family.

Alcmene led the way inside, her arms around her grandsons' shoulders, as she commented on how tall they were.

"Father thought we could go hunting," Jason was saying as they crossed through the central courtyard and through the passage to the rear of the house. "He's never taken us hunting before."

Aeson chimed in, "He says we aren't old enough to hunt boar but perhaps stag. I think I could hunt a boar."

Alcmene laughed and ruffled her Aeson's honey brown hair, so much like his father's. Hercules frowned, trying to remember if she had ever been so affectionate with him.

"You need to be bigger to hunt boar," Alcmene was saying, "just to have the weight to brace the spear."

"It's still warm," said Hercules, aware he sounded annoyed and tried to soothe his tone. "Too warm for decent hunting. We may just ride up into the mountains."

Alcmene settled on her favorite bench, Jason on one side, Aeson on a stool at her feet. Hercules noticed that the garden Iolaus had been digging that spring was full of fall flowers.

"Perhaps you can go fishing," suggested Alcmene as her servant offered each of them a drink.

"I'm not much of a fisherman," Hercules admitted.

Alcmene smiled. "Then you can take Iolaus with you and he can teach all three of you! He's a masterful fisherman."

Hercules set his cup down carefully, so that he didn't break it. He was surprised at how his anger had surged up at his mother's ridiculous suggestion. "I am not having a field slave teach my sons anything."

"No?" Alcmene gave him a long, searching look. "Perhaps not." She smiled at her grandsons again. "You should go freshen up for dinner. I need to speak to your father."

The boys obeyed their grandmother, each giving her a warm kiss, and their father a grave bow, before going towards the wash house. Hercules could hear them, laughing as they argued over who would be the first to catch a boar. Aeson was the elder by eleven months but Jason took more after his father and was already as tall as his brother. Once Hercules was sure the boys couldn't hear, he turned to his mother, furious.

"How dare you suggest a common field slave. . .a former prisoner. . .spend time in the company of the princes of Mycenae!"

Alcmene stared at her son, her mouth set in a grim line. "Iolaus is no common slave. And once he was considered the dearest companion of the man who is now King of Mycenae. I think you remember a little of that, even if you pretend not to."

Hercules paced away from his mother, trying hard to control his temper. He rarely let it get the best of him but when he did, he was reminded that his father was a thunder god.

"I still think you think too highly of a slave."

"There was a time, Hercules, when I thought of Iolaus as my son. I loved him as much as I loved any child of mine." Hercules was surprised to see tears well up suddenly in his mother's eyes. He hadn't thought she cared enough about anyone to weep for them.

"Mother, I. . ." Should he apologize and if so, for what?

Alcmene brushed the tears away as if angry. "If you think him too low to teach your sons to fish, fine. You still might ask him about the hunting. He is an excellent huntsman and could give you good advice."

"You let a slave go hunting!"

"Hercules, Iolaus is not going to run away. And even if he left, he would leave as a free man. I granted him his freedom months ago."

A servant came out of the house, hesitantly, giving Hercules a terrified glance before curtsying. "My lady, the cook wishes to speak to you about the meal."

"Excuse me, Hercules. We should be eating in about an hour."

She left him standing on the terrace. He could hear her consulting with the cooks, hear his sons laughing with their tutor as they unpacked, could hear a voice singing. It wasn't the maid he usually heard. It was a man's voice, a clear tenor singing about climbing mountains.

Iolaus was singing as he walked back from the field, a scythe over one shoulder. He was in an excellent mood. The harvest, which he hated, was done and he could turn his attention to those tasks he preferred. There was ironmongery awaiting repair in his forge, then he had to ready his spears and arrows for the fall hunts and prepare traps for the winter. There was also a plump kitchen maid awaiting his attention later in the day. A shadow fell across his path and he stopped, startled that someone as big as the king of Mycenae could move so quietly.

Stepping back, Iolaus managed an awkward duck of his head, and muttered, "My lord."

Hercules stared down at him with cold eyes. Iolaus tried to see the sweet child he had known in the grim man before him and failed. The eyes were the same color but other than that, there was no sign of the happy toddler Iolaus once loved.

"My mother says you are an excellent huntsman."

"Ah. . ." It took Iolaus a moment to collect his thoughts. "I am, my lord. But with the warm weather we've been having, the hunting won't be very good as yet. The animals are. . ."

"I know."

They stared at each other.

Iolaus finally said, "Was there something else, my lord?"

"Do you remember us playing together as children?"

Iolaus blinked. It wasn't the question he was anticipating. "Yes, my lord. Very well, considering how young I was. They were the happiest days in my life."

Hercules looked away. There was something in Iolaus' face that tugged at his heart in a way he found very uncomfortable.

"Did I. . ." Hercules took a breath and looked back at Iolaus. "Did I ever hurt you?"

Iolaus looked genuinely stunned. "Hurt me? No? Why would you?" His voice trailed off.

"I killed my own brother. I might have injured you as well." Hercules said these things flatly, his voice devoid of emotion. He was a little surprised he could say what he had just said. In all the years since that dreadful day, he had never spoken the truth out loud.

Iolaus had gone pale. He glanced around, as if to be certain no one was listening, then said, softly, "No, Hercules, you didn't. You didn't hurt me and you didn't kill Iphicles."

"What?"

Iolaus took a step closer to the king. "I know you have borne that guilt all your life and I'm sure Lord Zeus had a reason for what he did but. . ."

Hercules' eyes narrowed as he stared at the other man. It was an expression that sent fear into the hearts of most men who saw it but Iolaus just looked back, calm and concerned.

"How would you know about Iphicles?"

"I was there, my lord, the day it happened. We were all playing together, the three of us. The nurse maid set to watch us had fallen asleep and Iphicles climbed a tree he wasn't supposed to. He fell and broke his arm. We left him there, crying but very much alive, and ran back to the house for help." Iolaus took a deep breath. Hercules could see how the man's hand was gripping the handle of the scythe tightly. "I was trying to tell your mother what happened when Zeus appeared, holding Iphicles' body in his arms. Zeus told your mother that you had pushed your brother in anger, pushed him hard enough that he hit his head on a tree and crushed his skull." Iolaus took a deep breath. "But he was lying."

Hercules frowned, shaking his head slowly. "Impossible. Why would. . ."

"I don't know. I tried to tell Alcmene the truth and Zeus struck me. When I woke up the next day, my jaw was broken and I overheard my father tell my mother he was going to sell me into slavery as soon as I healed, because Zeus had told him to. My mother was able to send me away to some kinsman of hers, and I stayed with them until I was old enough to run away."

"Are you saying the King of the Gods murdered an innocent child and condemned another to slavery on a whim?" Hercules tried to make his voice heavy with sarcasm but, in truth, he heard the doubt in it himself.

Iolaus shook his head. "Not on a whim, my lord. He wanted to raise you himself and your mother refused him. For some reason, some promise he had made to her, he couldn't take you unless she gave you up willingly."

"If you're lying. . ."

"To what end?" Iolaus set down his scythe and laid a hand on Hercules' arm. "I am a freed slave, a man whose life was wasted. I can gain nothing but giving you the clear conscience you deserve. You did not kill your brother."

Hercules pulled away, disturbed by that hand touching him, even if Iolaus only touched the leather bracer he wore. If what this man said was true, it would change everything. Hercules threw his head back and howled at the sky.

"ZEUS! SHOW YOURSELF!"

Iolaus jumped back as the King of Mycenae roared at the heavens. He had the fleeting desire to run away but knew it would be useless. A god could find him no matter where he tried to hide.

The air burned blue and Zeus stepped out of it. The King of the Gods narrowed his eyes when he saw Iolaus. Before either of them could say anything, Hercules stepped forward.

"Iolaus," said Hercules, pointing at the mortal in question, "says I didn't kill Iphicles. That you killed Iphicles and told my mother I did. Is that true?"

Zeus shook his head as if he were weary. "Hercules, are you still on about that? If I had known your mother bought that miserable. . ."

Hercules' big hand closed around a fold in his father's robe and he jerked the god towards him. "Did I kill Iphicles?"

Zeus stepped back, brushing his hands across his robe. He sighed and said, as if the matter were of no import, "No, you didn't."

Distantly, Hercules was aware of his sons and his mother watching from house. He could feel Iolaus' eyes on him, concern on the man's face. He knew that an evening wind had blown up, lifting his hair off his face, and that a cow was lowing in the distance, wanting milking, but none of those ordinary things registered. All he could think about, all that filled his mind, was the memory of his long dead brother.

"All my life," gasped Hercules, "All my life I have tried to atone for fratricide and now you tell me! It was all a lie!"

"You really do take things so dramatically, Hercules." Zeus waved a hand, as if to dismiss the whole matter. "So an unimportant mortal child died. So what? Mortal children die all the time, taken by fevers and accidents. You've lost children yourself. Had I not interfered, the boy might have died on his own at any time."

Hercules lunged forward, snatching his father off his feet. His face was twisted in rage. "I WAS INNOCENT!" He shook Zeus as a cat shakes a mouse. "All these years and I was INNOCENT!"

Zeus removed himself from his son's grasp, vanishing and reappearing a pace away. "You were my son. I had a right to raise you. I know, I made that foolish promise to your mother before you were born and I had to fix it, to correct my mistake." Zeus gave Iolaus, who was standing a short distance away, a cold glance. "I should have killed you instead." Zeus raised his hand. 

And someone else grasped it before he could inflict any damage on the mortal. 

"No, father," said Ares, holding Zeus' arm firmly. "I let you change Iolaus' destiny but he is still under my protection and has been since you made me give him up. Remember?"

Zeus jerked away from this son.

From the house, it was a tableau so terrible and beautiful as to be dangerous to look upon. Alcmene had her arms around her grandsons' shoulders as she watched. She had heard Hercules' shout, could see Iolaus, and wondered if what she was seeing were true. Was Hercules finally learning the truth? 

"Grandmother," whispered a prince, "What's going on?"

"Hush, child. We may be witnessing the end of the world."

Ares tucked his hands in the sleeves of his robe. For a creature designed for battle and war, he could look deceptively calm, dressed in his robes the color of a dove's wing. Only the sword on his hip gave away his true calling. He stared at his father.

Hercules stepped away from his father and brother, walked slowly away from them. So what if they fought over supremacy of the gods? Zeus had deposed his father. Ares or another of his sons would overthrow him some day. What did it matter?

Iphicles. Hercules closed his eyes and pictured his elder, mortal brother. Iphicles had hair the color of burnished copper. He was taller than the child Hercules, bigger and, to Hercules then, much wiser. Hercules could feel his hands held, his child's hands. Iolaus on one side, Iphicles on the other, as they walked somewhere, laughing. He could feel Iphicles hugging him as the elder tucked the younger child in bed. For a moment, he felt cold and then his older brother crawled under covers beside him, whispering to Hercules that wind and thunder were nothing to be afraid of because they were far away and Hercules had fallen asleep, warm and comforted. He could see, very clearly, the child running up the hill towards the orchard, his longer legs taking him away as Iolaus and Hercules followed more slowly.

"Wait, Iphie," The four-year-old Hercules had cried while six-year-old Iolaus had said, "He's going to get his backside warmed for sure if your mother catches him climbing that tree again."

"Hercules?"

Iolaus' voice broke into that old memory of a time when the world was warm and safe and Hercules was loved. Loved by his mother and his brother and his best friend.

"Iolaus?"

"Are you all right?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Hercules saw that Zeus and Ares were gone. A look at the sky told him the battle would be fought on Olympus.

"I have to tell my mother," said Hercules hoarsely.

"She knows, Hercules." Hercules didn't notice that the commoner no longer used the honorific when addressing him. "I told her a long time ago. We didn't tell you because we were afraid of what Zeus might do to her."

"I didn't kill my brother." Hercules' eyes burned and the sensation confused him. "All these years, I thought myself a monster. I was so careful. . .to hold back. . .for fear of hurting someone. . ."

It was only as Hercules saw the tears shining in Iolaus' eyes that he realized he was weeping, too.

"Where is he buried?" Hercules looked around the farm as if he had never seen it. He barely noticed his mother speaking to his sons. "Where is Iphicles?"

Iolaus pointed up the hill to the orchard. "Your mother had him buried there, beneath the apple trees because he so loved to play there."

The balcony off her sitting room. It faced the orchard. All these years, his mother had kept watch over the son she had failed to protect. Hercules started up the hill, Iolaus behind him.

"Ares said Zeus changed your destiny." Hercules glanced over at Iolaus, rather surprised to see that the much shorter mortal was having no trouble keeping up. "Ares said you were destined to be my sword brother, my companion."

"Oh." Iolaus didn't seem to know quite what to make of the statement. "Someone once said to me, the woman whose betrayal sent me to prison, that I seemed like a man who was missing something, or someone, in his life. I knew what she meant. I've always felt that way."

"As have I." Hercules looked around the orchard. Iolaus pointed to a small stone between a row of trees. Hercules had never noticed it before. There was no carving on it to show it marked a grave but he realized it was fine piece of granite, buried deep in the ground, and it was roughly polished. He knelt beside it, his hand touching the curve, and knew that his mother had often rested her hand there. "Iphicles."

A hand rested on his shoulder as he bent his head and wept for his dead brother and his own lost life. He had sensed the presence of Ares and thought it was the god's hand but when he lifted his head, Ares stood across from him. 

"Iphicles," said the god, "has been enjoying an eternal childhood of warm summer days and ripe apples in the Elysian Fields. He is with his father and thinks that tomorrow, his baby brother, his mother and his friend will be coming home. Every day he thinks that." Ares sighed. "I could envy him his innocence."

Hercules' voice was little more than a whisper, his tight throat with a lifetime of tears. "I am innocent of that but guilty of so many other things. My wife. . .my sons. . ."

"Your sons love you." The words of comfort came from the mortal, whose hand still rested on the king's shoulder. "And there is plenty of time for you to love them."

Hercules shook his head, finding it heavy on his shoulders. "I can't begin to make up for all these years."

"No," said Ares, "those years are lost. But there are many more before you. Your life thread is very long and very strong. So is your mother's and your sons'." The corner of the god's mouth curved upward. "And Iolaus'."

"Mine?" Iolaus gave the shoulder beneath him a last squeeze and stepped back, suddenly noticing his familiarity.

"You and Hercules were meant to be friends. To love each other. Now is your chance."

Hercules looked up. "What about Zeus?"

Ares let out a breath. "We have come to an agreement. This is not a time for us to battle. And he knew you would learn the truth someday, either when you died or when you became a god, which ever fate is in store for you. Besides, he did it so he could raise you."

Hercules snorted. " You raised me."

"Well, the point was an Olympian brought you up. And you are a man now, Hercules."

Iolaus said softly, "A man reborn."

Hercules, King of Mycenae, no longer the murderer of his brother, rather felt that way. He walked back to his mother's house and, for the first time since he was a child, hugged her, glad to feel his arms around. Then he and his sons and his lost friend sat down to dinner and Hercules explained to his sons about their uncle and the tragedy of their father's life. And when dinner was over and his sons were in bed, he took a walk, back up to his brother's grave, not surprised to see someone with bright fair hair that reflected the moonlight sitting there.

"My lord," said Iolaus, standing up.

"No, Iolaus, you were right to call me Hercules." He gave the man a sad smile. "We were friends once."

"I hope we can be again."

Awkwardly, Hercules held out his arm, meaning to grasp Iolaus' but Iolaus had other ideas. The king was stunned when Iolaus put his arms around Hercules, rested his head on Hercules' shoulder, and embraced him. Hercules was so surprised, he embraced Iolaus back, barely able to note two things; that Iolaus was strong for a mortal and that the embrace felt. . .right.

Iolaus stepped back, wiping his nose on his sleeve, shrugged and gave Hercules a diffident smile. "Sorry, I know that was forward."

"No." Hercules thought about it. "No, it was the right thing to do." Hercules looked away from his brother's grave, towards his mother's house, where he could see a soft light still burning in her window. "And now, for the first time in my life, I think can really do the right things."

"Forgive me, my lord. . ."

At the tilt of Hercules' head, Iolaus grinned and corrected himself.

"Forgive me, Hercules, but you have been a good king. You've been fair and just. Even your prisons are decently run!" Iolaus winked, to let Hercules know he was only teasing and Hercules found his own mouth curving into a rare smile.

"I have tried to be a good king and, I think, most of the time, I've succeeded, but I haven't been a good person. Do you think you could help me with that?"

Iolaus' eyes went wide. Hercules found himself remembering, with the clarity born of his godly blood, exactly what Iolaus had looked like as a child, those same wide blue eyes, chubby cheeks always pulled into a bright smile. That face, even more than Iphicles' or his mother's, had been the rock of Hercules' childhood.

"I don't know if I can make you a better person but I bet I can make you a better fisherman."

And Hercules, King of Mycenae, threw and arm around his friend's shoulder and laughed.

And Fates smiled, as the pattern in the tapestry finally fell into place.

 

June 2003


End file.
